


Problematic

by PaperAnn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV Alternating, Post-Episode: s12e12 Stuck In The Middle (With You), Rough Sex, Supernatural Kink Bingo 2019, Teasing, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2019-11-24 05:44:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18162152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperAnn/pseuds/PaperAnn
Summary: It all started with gut-wrenching fear and a deathbed "I love you." If Cas miraculously survived (spoiler: he had) and the confession was resolute, unwavering—cool. But things never seemed to go their way.Realizing he'd accidentally outted 'them' to the fam, Cas began sputtering clumsy afterthoughts. Always trying to make shit easier for Dean. Even when it made the ride back kinda weird.Dean knew Cas was expectingsomething. Obviously. After what happened, so was Dean—and he tried to find the right words, God, did he try.But he couldn’t…get it up:emotionally.  …Dean had whiskey-dick of the heartstrings, which was just as bad (if not worse) than the standard kind.Everything was fucked up. Even when they got home, things continued to spiral. This time Dean wasn’t totally to blame: Cas hardly gave him a chance!The next thing Dean knew, after a peck on the cheek, Cas flew out the door searching for Kelly Kline! Knowing full-well Dean needed to mull things over, gather his thoughts, to feel confident and onlythen—Instead of wallowing, Dean devised a plan. One that involved more show than tell.He didn't need a speech to return Cas' love—he had a better idea.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This began as a short, sweet and smutty oneshot bingo fill. During the editing process, it evolved into something different, proceeding to grow...and grow...and grow. The final result is more like a pining, fix-it and _still smutty_ too-long-for-bingo-fills but still-a-bingo-fill that's now been split into two chapters. It happens :)

That night was fucking terrifying.  If Dean was honest, he was still shaken.  He couldn’t lie or bullshit his way through, not when it came to something so heavy, yet, so...delicate.  
  
Somehow, the stupid 'Lance of Michael’ had cut through time and space, turning their world into slow motion.  Being forced to watch it carve into Cas’ gut—tearing him apart from the inside out, flesh breaking and decaying, splitting at the seams—and when Dean thought Cas was actually going to die—?  
  
It hadn't made any sense: Dean’s own life flashed before his eyes.   _He_ wasn’t the one dying, was he?  What right did he have!

Looking back, the irony was bitter.  A sour taste still lingered in the back of his throat.

In another time, another universe—wow—Dean _was_ the Michael sword.  He could've easily been the one wielding the same weapon.  Using it in the exact manner to cut down a rebel angel.  The concept was haunting.  
  
One of those ideas that _should've_ been fleeting but instead glued itself behind your eyelids.  So whenever you close 'em—poof!—there it is, to nag at you! ...Nag, being an understatement...  
  
Everything about the series of events kept on fucking with his head, turning his stomach: revving up, slamming to a halt, growing into a new different monster.  The game repeating over and over, zero to one hundred, Dean’s emotional whiplash agonizing.  All of it circled back to a single moment of perfect stillness...  
  
— _Before_ the memories jump-started the cycle.  And it explosively looped around, all over again...  
  
What Cas used his last moments for baffled him.  
  
Their audience was part of the reason Dean had remained stunned ever since.  
  
See, it wasn't only Dean who thought Cas was gonna die—it was everyone in that rickety old barn—and Cas felt his life slipping away, knowing it was happening faster than anyone could guess.  
  
There was no happy ending, and with that in mind—well...his angel came out.  About _them_.  To everyone.  Intentionally, of course.  
  
Cas, the beautiful bastard, while choking down his rotting blood and knowing his time was running out, defiantly turned _away_ from Death and turned _towards_ Dean—all because he needed to say he loved him.  He fought for those words.  All of them could see how excruciating it was, but Cas pushed through the pain to make him understand.

Despite Dean’s previous apprehension, all his worry surrounding 'them,' was ridiculous.  Those dumb worries seemed weak.  Insignificant and petty.  He was going to lose the best thing in his life—something that could've been amazing—but he'd allowed his fear and straight-up stubbornness to blind him!  Useless worry stood in the way of exploring something incredible.  Something he didn't realize he had, until it was almost too late.  
  
If Cas chose to make his final words a profession of love for Dean?  Yeah, it would have devastated him.  But at least he knew what they had _was real_.  
  
But those _weren't_ his last words.  
  
Who knew if Dean paled, if his expression flashed in panic.  Or maybe Cas was coherent enough to realize what he'd done, thinking he was leaving Dean behind in a mess, with a lot of explaining to do.  
  
Either way, the fumbled, "I love all of you" was as clumsy an addendum as you could get.  
  
Had the situation been less dire—Dean would've slapped himself in the forehead.  Probably slapped Cas, too.  Then promptly hit the road to hide in the mountains—live out his life as a hermit, he was so embarrassed.  
  
They were saved by a miracle, and God had nothing to do with it.  
  
No, it was Crowley, of all people.  He snapped the lance.  
  
Dean's mind blanked out and he was speechless.  He questioned if he'd gone mad, the revelation a shock to the system: the demon was _saving_ Cas—which meant saving _Dean_.  
  
All it took was splintering wood to destroy unimaginable power and Cas lit up like a solar flare, Dean’s hope bursting as brightly.  God, that relief was indescribable when he saw his angel was back, like, _really_ : Cas made a full recovery.  
  
Cas (thankJesusfuckingChrist) making it out alive was the answer to his prayers, but it also changed things.  Lots'a things.  
  
The way shit went down...the way everything played out: it was all wrong!  An unfortunate series of events, flawed timing and a curse that nothing— _ever, ever, ever_ —worked out in their favor.  
  
If this had been behind closed doors, minus the dying part, Dean would've been a happy camper.  Hm, he would've soaked up every letter in L-O-V-E—probably egging Cas on until it annoyed the hell outta him.  But it _hadn't_ —it was as public as a Winchester could get.  
  
You know, even if Cas had gone full-on 'fuck yeah, I love you, Dean, but  _none_ of you other fuckers,' committing and refusing to backtrack, Dean would've probably been okay with that, too.  Better to go balls-to-the-wall instead of circling in a worthless limbo, right?  
  
And limbo was precisely where they were.  Stuck.  
  
Dean's head was muddled.  He was pretty sure Cas meant it, and in the aftermath; he didn't care about other people knowing anymore.  But what if _he_ liked Dean's idea of a sexy-secret-romance?  What if that _was_ Cas' comfort zone?  What if hands were forced that day?  What did Cas think Dean thought?  Dean...okay, yeah, _obviously_ he felt the same about his angel.  There wasn't anything they could do now, but—  
  
Dean was left asking more 'what-ifs' and questioning more boundaries than before!  
  
He didn't care about some dumb beef about stealing from Ramiel.  He barely heard his Mom try to talk to him about some explanation.  Stealing from a demon?  She could knock herself out and go raid the house if she wanted!  He didn't want to know, Dean had his own problems, so he brushed her off.  
  
He wanted to go home. 

Now, things were…really awkwardly weird.  
  
There was still two too many in their company.  Sam and Mary had never been particularly discreet about...well, anything.  Shivers from their eyes were driving Dean up the wall.  Then there was the way he was monitoring, gauging _and_  moderating the space between he and Cas...fuck, when all Dean wanted was to knock him down on the ground (Cas'd _barely_ gotten to his feet) and kiss him stupid.  
  
Of course, now that Cas was back in mint condition— _Dean_ was trigger shy!  
  
He couldn't bring himself to do anything!  
  
Words, actions _, anything,_ resulting inDean offering a dumbass _fist-bump_ , for fuck's sake _—_ only making Cas frown in confusion—when Dean, himself, has hated the douchey gesture: since _always_! 

Maybe during the fight, Dean got hit in the head.  He sure as shit wasn't up to par.  It made absolutely sense, he was on the receiving end of a power-house strike.  It was a Prince of Hell!  It'd be crazy if he _didn't_ have a concussion slowing him down.    
  
...Maybe he was freaking out because it was sinking in: everyone was gonna make it.  Nobody's brain was scrambled, as Dean would like to think of his own.  The pressure wasn't a threat, Dean could feel it—it was bound to happen once everyone knew.  
  
Maybe he was having a nervous breakdown?  It was about that time: he was due.  
  
Dammit, as if Dean needed another reason for cold-sweat filled, sleepless nights full of PTSD— when his ever-growing playlist was already full!  He couldn't take another burned-in image of almost losing Cas.   _Again_.  One more episode like today and he'd have his own Netflix show.  
  
He prayed Baby and the open road would help.  
  
Sometimes the Bunker would drive him stir-crazy.  Other times, Dean felt settled in, coming and going, and (fine, Sam!) _nesting_ may sound weird, but welcome—he'd always felt cheated, never having a place to call 'home.'  The Bunker was more than their home, and it was reaching out to Dean like a beacon—  
  
There was no place he'd rather be.  And he intended to floor it.  
  
See, somewhere along the route, Dean must have done something wrong.  
  
He assumed the goal was to regroup.  To catch their breath.  To gain a sense of security in an otherwise disastrous, clusterfuck of a hunt.  Make the choice between beer and a bed once they parked, like usual.  Cool, right?  
  
After that debacle, who would wanna engage in hot topic debates or blast some music?  It was gonna take effort to unravel, this was a no-brainer.  Or at least, that's how it began.   

Open highways were calling out to him.  The best place for Dean to decompress, this was one of those key times when he didn't simply _want_ , but _needed_ it.  Except, when Baby's engine purred to life, melting Dean down into the seat, his little brother had played a game of musical chairs.  Right under his nose.  
  
Time was long overdue to get the hell out, Dean shifted gears and whipped the wheel around.  His first task was reversing from where they'd tucked away the Impala.  When Dean tossed his arm backwards over the seat, spiraling his focus and his head...it was only _then_  that hesaw Sam seated with Mary.  
  
Which meant Cas was riding shotgun.  And he had no idea.  
  
Sam knew just what he was doing—looking everywhere _except_  Dean—and their Mom was behaving with shocking similarity.  
  
Dean had no idea what he hoped this would accomplish!  Now he couldn't even chill out on the trip.  What did his family except?!  Hand holding?  They had eyes, they were keen, trained hunters: you'd expect them to pick up on small nuances where their own flesh and blood was having trouble!  Instead of using them as their own entertainment!  But no.  
  
The only positive thing coming out of Sam and Mary being freakin' children?  Was...reinforcement.  Of Dean's self-realization there wasn't any earth-shattering reason they needed to be a secret.  They had the potential to be something great.  And as much as he wanted to lash out, to rip Sam a new one—God, it felt awesome this part was over, that the little shit could be cheeky, and Mom smoothly joined.  
  
Why couldn't it be so easy for Dean?  
  
He was the one in a relationship.  Fuckin' hell, he was the one whose world was just rocked and hadn't the faintest place to start.  How did he cross this odd divide of silence?    
  
Trapped in an assbackwards game of chicken, where Cas made the last move, and it kinda _was_ Dean's turn.  He wanted that turn, he really, really did—

Except…that’s where his stupid trigger-shyness 'default-setting' surfaced: on the ride home.  While the audience didn't help, they never stopped any banter in the past.  Sometimes other passengers couldn't get him and Cas to shut up.  
  
Every so often, Sam and Mary would briefly go head-to-head against the fatigue, drumming up some white noise conversation between them—maybe it was for Dean, maybe it wasn't.  The opportunity had been dangled, yet neither Dean nor Cas took it.  
  
The biggest friggin problem about silence (or hesitation, afraid of ruining things) is the longer the silence goes: the thicker the invisible wall grew.  
  
Usually, the easiest way to fix anything was when the space between their bodies didn't exist, at all.   Except, now that attention was drawn toward it, how did they get back to 'before?'  Dean needed to stop _everything_ from changing before the divide expanded further.  Or, unless the change was for the better. There was no doubt in his mind this was a turning point.  
  
And he had a direction, the words and intent, but dammit, he couldn't translate!   
  
Dean knew Cas was expecting _something_.  Obviously.  After what happened, so was Dean.  And he tried, God, did he try.  
  
But he couldn’t…get it up— _emotionally_.  …Dean had whiskey-dick of the heartstrings, which was just as bad in this scenario, if not worse!  
  
Jacking things up, quicker than quick, and once they'd arrived home—things actually took _another_ hit.

He wasn’t totally to blame: Cas, like, _barely_ gave him any time!

The next thing Dean knew, the fuckin’ angel announced he had a new objective.  Something that, apparently, took precedence over trying to sort things out with Dean.  
  
There wasn't a lick of 'let's talk this out,' or 'can we go some place private?'  Neither gave nor took, they retreated back into themselves.  But Cas—ah, he pulled a power-move Dean hadn't seen coming.  
  
Friggin Cas was headed out to search for Kelly Kline!  
  
He fuckin’ took off.  Running away.  High-tailing it outta there and _running_ before Dean could stop him!  
  
Cas removed himself from the situation, taking away Dean's ability to do...anything.

…They barely had a chance for a goodbye kiss…even then, it wasn’t what it should’ve been.  Not by a long shot.  
  
It was a write-off, a hollow motion to go through when Dean knew their connection was incredible.  Not the shadow Cas was leaving behind.  And...all right.  Dean took back his accusation, the blame fell on him, one-hundred percent.

He’d totally, undeniably fucked up.

Any other time, any other situation, he would’ve let it play out.  

Not today.  Dean wasn’t gonna wait around twiddling his thumbs for their monster of the week.  
  
His night had been surprisingly productive, since, you know: he hadn't slept a wink.  Replaying every moment and how badly he failed, made him realize exactly how important this was.  Waiting around wouldn't cut it, he was focused and determined to be proactive.  Instead of dreams, he formulated plots, jumping out of bed the second his clock read a 'reasonable' hour.

Sam was in the kitchen when Dean’s assertive stomps to the War Room surprised him.  “Dean!  What…what are you doing?”  He chased after him, coffee sloshing over the edges.

His duffle bag thumped on the table.  Dean unzipped it, grabbed his laptop up from their research space and stuffed it inside.  He scanned around, seeing if any other useful items caught his attention before his trip.  With an interested hum, Dean snatched up a stray hexbag.  
  
Who didn’t need invisibility from angels and demons, right?  He turned to face his brother.

“I’ve got someone to see.”  Dean said it with confidence, because if Sam believed him, maybe he could believe in himself?

Sam chuckled and rolled his eyes.  “You already know he’s not coming back, right?  At least, not yet.  Once he finds Kelly, he’ll bring her back _with him,_ so we can watch her.  You should know, better than anyone, when he’s ‘on a mission,’ he’ll see it through.”

“Did I say I was hauling his ass back?” Dean snipped with a sharply raised eyebrow, deliberately repeating, “I said: I’ve got someone to see.  I’m not gonna keep him from his Devil Child Baby Mama Stalking.  Just need to—”

“Give him some TLC?”  There was a shit-eating grin on Sam’s face as he leaned against the doorway.  “You don’t have to lie to me about you guys.  I’m glad you’re finally out.  It was fucking painful pretending to ignore it, you know?  Neither of you grasp the art of subtlety.”

“Shove it, bitch.”  While Dean was dramatic in heaving the bag over his shoulder, he couldn’t help his natural, fond glow.  It was the kindness in Sam’s voice that did him in.  So much so, he admitted, “Sammy, I...didn’t handle it well.  Before he left to find that chick, I should’a done more.  I need to make it up to him, up to us.”

Sam approached with concern, yet Dean barely noticed.  He’d frozen in his tracks, mind racing with the words out in the open—somehow, they felt so much more real, all of a sudden—  
  
Touch was the spark ending his daze, and while he keeping a firm grip on Dean’s arm, Sam wondered, “Do you know where he is?”

“Last I heard, some place in the Midwest.  I’ll call him on the road, I’ve got some ground to cover anyway.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.  Going into _anything_  half-assed.”  Sam eyed him, and really—Dean couldn’t argue.  
  
He probably looked pretty pathetic.  
  
What else was he supposed to do?  
  
“I get it,” Sam recognized that look, “You’re diving into a plan with your heart.  Okay, well...how about this…” Sam shook his head abruptly, like he was also shaking off Dean’s bullshit strategy, restarting with his own.  His lips pursed together before eventually deciding, “You head there, like you were going to.  If you want to, talk to him on the phone, but _don’t_ drop any hints to give away your plan.  Don’t let him know you’re headed in his direction.  Surprise him.”

“Uhh…”  Dean’s jaw dropped open in a stupor.  “How the hell am I gonna _surprise_ him if I can’t _find him_?”

“Easy.”  Sam grinned widely, explaining, “You have me, here, working a locator spell.  That way he doesn’t get the chance to rehearse his words, or worse: build up a wall before your arrival.  You said something was weird before he left, so this way, you guys have the best shot at being, well, _you_.  Unsuspecting and uncensored.”

Dean was dumbfounded.  
  
The fact Sam would go so far out of his way to help him like this?  His little brother volunteering his brains and talents for a task as lame as him and Cas having a tense, trouble-in-paradise situation?  All of it, having stemmed from Dean dropping the ball after a close call (in the worst way), and Sam was well aware of the huge error that needed repair.  
  
Well, fuck.  Now that he thought about it, why hadn’t Dean spilled to Sam earlier?!  Imagine all the complications and misunderstandings Dean and his angel could’ve gotten out of with Sam’s quick thinking!

“You’re totally serious?”  Dean _had_ to be sure.  “I don’t wanna annoy you and pull you into drama that’s between—”

“Shut up,” he interjected.  “I’m glad I can do something.  Now, get on the road.  I’ll call you in a few hours once you’ve made some headway.”

Finally, for the first time in what felt like forever; Dean smiled.  He wasn’t faking it for Sam’s sake, the little shit actually dragged it out of him.

“Thanks, man.  I really owe you.”  His words were brimming with sincerity as he turned towards the garage.

Sam called after him, “Go fix this, whatever it was that you did or didn’t do.  Cas went through hell and, for some reason, thinks you're worth it.   _That’s_ all I need.”

While Dean puffed up at the reprimand, it was mostly bravado since he couldn’t really refute it.  He usually was the asshat making mistakes, rather—the _small_ ones.  
  
When Cas fucked up, on the other hand, it was life-alternating and world-endangering.  He was kind of a go-big-or-go-home type of guy.  Yet, all the little things, those signals Dean _should_ be able to read by now?

It was like he had the book upside down.  Relationships were hard.  Love was hard.  But that was the thing…he loved the fuck out of Cas, and that’s why he was driving _God knows where_ to mend things.

He had ample time to figure out exactly what went into the ‘how’s…

\---------------------------

As it turned out, Sam was _better_ than a GPS.

Dear Lord, Dean needed him too, more than he’d initially predicted.

With all this bonkers bouncing back and forth, it was looking more and more like Kelly Kline was a jet-setter, checking out the sights from sea to shining sea!  
  
Constantly re-routing was maddening.  Cas didn't sleep, so when Dean needed to: the distance between them grew, he was another step ahead.  The dance continued for a handful of days before Sam confirmed Cas was hovering, stationary, around one city.  
  
They finally closed in on a location, narrowing down Cas’ signal to the outskirts of Ohio, riding the Pennsylvania state line.

Dean was a ball of nervous energy sitting in the Impala and on the phone with Sam.  He took in a deep breath, getting his ducks in a row.  “Okay.  I’m almost positive I got the hotel.  That truck he left in’s here.  Hey—remind me, I gotta teach him how to parallel park!  Damn rust-bucket is beggin’ to be side-swiped, it’s nowhere close to the curb!”  
  
That’s when Dean knew, yep, he was stalling.  He had to cut to the chase, the whole set-up part.  “Now you’re sure, like, _one-hundred percent sure_ , Cas is still on the move?  He’s _not_ in the motel?”

“Positive, Dean.  I found a giant map of the state in the archives.  The spell work shows he’s in motion at a walking pace, not idling inside a room.  I can see down to the friggin _streets_ on his thing—have some faith.”  Sam’s voice was quizzical when he wondered, “Why does it matter?  You’re getting the jump on him no matter what.  Hexbag makes sure of that.”

“Trust me.  It matters.  Okay, thanks.  I’ll get back with you, hopefully in a day or two.”

He could hear Sam’s smile when he agreed, “Sounds good.  I won’t wait up.”

After Dean ended the call, he surveyed the motel.  He left all his belongings in the Impala, being sure to lock up, because currently—he didn’t need to fuss with distractions.  No, his plan had _nada_ to do with his travel bag.  He needed to find Cas’ room.  Now.   _Before_ the angel got back.

\--------------------

Tension had been steadily building in Cas’ shoulders as the days of his search passed with no results.  This evening, the strain reached a breaking point, his muscles cinched.  After all this time, he was still chasing whispers.  Most originated from underground human networks and those far deeper below.  
  
Rationally, he knew the vast majority of his intel wasn't credible—it was 'leaked' to toy with him.  Being selective wasn't an option, he may miss that _one good_ tip.  He wasn't the only faction hunting Kelly Kline, but he needed to be the fastest.  
  
It was irrelevant where the reports came from, he was on his own and desperate.  Especially since Castiel couldn’t request aid from Heaven.  He loathed the mere idea of lying.  Of ignoring communications, cutting himself off from his family.  The risk that came with speaking to his Brothers and Sisters about the nephilim existence...it was too steep. Too fatal.  
  
He didn’t want violence.  He never wished for it in the first place, yet it had an uncanny knack for finding him.

This expedition was especially frustrating.  Kelly Kline was not a ghost—she was a _human_.  That fact alone should have made her easy to trace, but frankly, Castiel found it to be the complete opposite.  
  
His current location held great promise.  Receiving word from two independent _and_  completely unconnected informants about the county was encouraging.  
  
With so much vast, expansive farmland and a city center, there were endless places to hide.  Maybe his luck was about to change.  
  
Even if she'd fled, it was undeniably recent and he was getting closer.  
  
There were a few more leads to investigate in town, but it was far past dusk and much too late for more visits.  While he briefly debated about stealthily exploring the farms, Castiel remembered those in the county had a penchant for guns, shooting first and asking questions later.  
  
He was in no mood to pluck bullets and shotgun shells from his vessel.  
  
He'd do it the right way.  Utterly convinced someone had conversed with her, was sheltering her, or took note while passing way on the sidewalk—he'd find them.

All those untapped resources had undoubtedly turned in for the night.  There wasn't much reason to stay outside wandering the streets, besides the cool evening air in his lungs.  
  
...And the tempting idea of one more errand before turning around.  He’d recently formed a bad habit, soothing his failures (of which, he'd had many) with visit a liquor store.  While drinking alone was rather pitiful, it was the only option—Castiel was unable to visit a bar.  
  
His angelic tolerance raise alarm when attempting to reach intoxication.    
  
If anyone in public counted his drinks, as bartenders are required to, an ambulance would be called within the hour.  Meanwhile, Castiel's vexation would only increase, unable to explain himself without consequence.  His patience was wearing thin with humans in general.

He followed the path of least resistance, no matter now lonely.  Castiel visited the store and bought in bulk.  
  
For a fleeting moment, the time spent with the cashier, Castiel appeared to have friends.  Many of them.  Through the eyes of another, he may even be throwing a party with...all those friends.  
  
It was a nice image.

Now, fully stocked for the night, he could entertain himself as he waited for the sun to rise again.  He held the bottles of liquor tightly, pulling out his room key and...wait.  
  
Castiel sensed a presence—just beyond his door—

Except… no, that _couldn’t_ be right.

He didn’t utilize his key, or turn the knob and open it.  He opted to make the small leap _through_ , the flash-flight, appearing right inside the hallway.

Castiel wasn’t the only who jumped, wide-eyed and startled.  
  
Oh no—Dean (while less surprised by his presence—this _was_ Castiel's room!) reared back at the abrupt arrival, too.

Castiel had made the choice to gain an upper hand on his uninvited guest.  It failed miserably.  
  
Instead, Castiel was stock-still, frozen in his tracks.  
  
The rigid grip of his arms locking up was the only thing that kept him from dropping the brown bags.  That element was fragile and dangerous.  Cas walked the line of shattering glass and cascading liquor seeping into the carpet, _or_ the booze and shards splashing outward, drenching _himself,_  from squeezing too tight.  
  
But...it was the last thing on his mind, senses completely short-circuiting, because— _holy shit._

Dean was here.  When he’d given no warning, no notice he'd ever left Kansas.    
  
Here.  Stretched out on Cas’ bed without a scrap of clothing on his body.  Completely naked.  As though it was mundane.  Casual.  Like this was another day in his life.  
  
It was _far_ from 'just another day' in Castiel's.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean greeted with his devil-may-care grin.  He gestured to his groceries.  “Whatcha got there?  You may wanna set 'em down."

Mechanically, the angel fought to take back control of his traitorous body.  To actively focus on schooling his features, knowing he'd defaulted to a dumbstruck fool!  
  
He _could_  handle this.  Yes, he'd take his time, drawing out the task to figure out what the hell was going on, he attempted just that.  Castiel used his free hand to balance the four (still-whole) bottles from their bases under the paper.  Slow and steady, he set them on the table—but slow and steady hadn't helped Cas' perception at all.  
  
Instead, he found himself stealing glances.  Continually staring back to make sure this wasn’t a fever dream.  A fantasy.  That Dean was here, nonchalant and comfortable and…utterly _magnificent_.  What had he gotten himself into?

Since he was already in proximity, would it be inappropriate to grab one of the fifths and, well, drink it?

Castiel was at odds with himself—should he be playing defense of offense?  Clearing his throat, he already struggled to keep his voice even, because _that’s_ what Dean did to him!  
  
Still, he needed answers, something had to give.  
  
"How did you find me?”  His gruff demand was accidental and the subsequent frown on Dean's face wasn't his intent.  Of course, he was happy to see Dean, he was…out of his element.  Unprepared.  “It doesn’t matter,” he quickly amended, thoughts scanning for a follow-up.  “W-what can I do for you?”  
  
Dean wasn't holding any grudges.  Quite the opposite.

“C’mere,” he reached out and scooted over.  Dean didn't stop until he'd found a new, comfortable place by pivoting to one side.  Instead of offering himself up, like before—sprawled out and on display, pure temptation.  “I wanted to see you.  I wanted to talk.  Like, really talk.  We never had the chance.”

Laughter burst from Castiel’s chest, allowing Dean to pull him, lead him.  He repeated back the ludicrous word, “ _Talk_?  How can you expect me to talk when you—”

“I’ve got your attention, right?” he quipped with a cunning edge, wiggling his eyebrows.  “Bet you a hundred bucks, _nothing’s_ gonna distract you from me."  
  
Dean had an excellent point.  The world could implode and Castiel would be none the wiser.  
  
Castiel had already lost this battle before he'd entered the room.  
  
And to think—earlier, he'd optimistically wondered if his luck was about to change.  He couldn't have asked for a more direct answer, could he?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da! Here comes the smut! Enjoy <3

"You’re absolutely correct.  You have my undivided attention."  It took some gumption and mental fortitude, but Cas eventually (albeit, stiffly) laid down on his side to face Dean.  Yes, he had his attention, but his roaming focus was an entirely different matter.  “Clever choice, your way of handling something like this.  I hope you don’t use to such a tactic regularly…no matter how effective...” as his words trailed off, his eyes continued to wander.

Up close, being in such proximity was undeniably...difficult.  
  
Cas’ fingers itched to touch.  He wanted to caress every inch of perfect, smooth, scarred and stunning skin laid out before him.  The harsh lights of the motel room held such a stark contrast to the old bulbs in the bunker.  While he didn't mind the 'mood lighting' at home, he wasn't complaining about the illuminating view.  
  
God, mapping out each unique mark that made Dean, Dean...Cas was struck with a sense of longing and nostalgia.  It bubbled to the surface underneath the unquenchable lust.  The hints of ache were both unexpected and enlightening.  Because...  
  
It felt like an eternity since they were last together.  Part of Cas knew that, even if he wouldn't willingly acknowledge it, his subconscious was mourning the distance.  
  
There was always something between them, a part had linked, and from that—Dean read his mind.

“Only attention I want is yours.”  His voice was husky, grabbing Cas’ chin and tilting his gaze upward.  He clearly craved the same contact, a connection.  “What happened?”

“W-what?”

Dean scooted in closer, pushing the trench coat and suit jacket off Cas’ shoulders.  “When you left.  You didn’t give me time to think.  You know damn well I need to collect my thoughts, or else I’ll _act_.  Usually, like an idiot.  And instead, you hit the road, fast as you could, knowing exactly that.”  With his fist tangled up in his tie, Dean’s voice wavered and exposed a usually-masked vulnerability that was shining bright.  The kind he opened up and only let Cas in to see.  
  
Plowing ahead, Dean spat out, “It’s all I can think about.  What I did wrong, how to fix it, if you’re pissed off.  I—”

“So you tracked me down and found me.”  Cas put together the pieces, the clues confirmed back in Dean’s eyes.  “You’ve never done this before.  Whenever we’ve had a miscommunication, we allow it to pass.  We drop it.  For good.  You've never—”

“But _I did_.  I’m here.”  There was an urgency in Dean’s voice, not only undeniably different—it toed the line of something _new_.  Except, the way it soon turned into a question made Cas uncomfortable, “Why?”  
  
He shoved Cas onto his back, unbuttoning his shirt and tearing it off.  
  
Confusion bloomed in Cas' gut, he was unsure if this was a fight, foreplay, or what Dean's motivations.  
  
Being shouted at, riled up, undressed, (yes, Castiel had words of his own he'd like to say) while salivating at the delicious image on top of him—it was a sensory overload.  
  
Neither were backing down.  
  
It was equally clear, Dean was just getting started.  “Why did you act like you couldn't get outta there quick enough?  Away from _me_ quick enough?”  
  
Dean had left his tact and restraint back at the bunker.  
  
These were the rough, strong, and dexterous hands of a hunter.  Twisting, tearing, pinning and acting without bounds—because Cas could take it.  No, his intent wasn't hurting Cas, he hadn't sought him out to teach him a lesson.  There was a logic behind this.  
  
Their relationship had gone through unresolved high-stakes, tests with no results, back to back.

The tension had manifested into something beautiful: when Dean was stripped down to bare bones like this, he was rawness and power.  It took Castiel's breathe away.  
  
Combined with the fuel of unbridled emotion, Dean edged on dangerous, an explosion in the making—well, it  _shouldn’t_  be turning Cas on.  But he was captivated.  
  
Only because he loved this man so much.  Each day, Dean still managed to surprise him, making that love grow.  
  
Of course, their situation held gravity.  That was a given.  
  
Castiel wished he could adequetly explain what was going through his mind, his version of the events that led them here.  
  
...The subsequent hard-on tenting his pants didn't do him any favors, he doubted Dean would listen.  
  
He could tell Dean was clearly distraught, but driven by purpose.  
  
They had fucked their problems away before, that's where Castiel would've guessed they were headed.  What, with Dean showing up unexpectedly with his aggressive behavior and his lack of clothes—it all pointed in the same direction.  Until something in his approach gave Castiel a reason to pause, knowing something about this…was unique.  
  
While hungry and desperate for the other, there was a special factor that changed things—

Cas reached out before Dean could rip off his pants, hands already poised to tear past zipper.  Castiel's palms skated across Dean's skin with purpose: rising, finally resting—cupping Dean’s cheeks in a turn of events.  The tender touch made him falter, brought him back to his lover and…he waited.

Yes, this was meant to slow them down, so they _could speak—_ it seemed imperative _—_ but the sight of Dean’s eyes hazy with lust and desperation?  Cas could not keep his lips to himself.

He pulled Dean down, finally colliding together, and licked into his mouth with zeal.  The mix of tongue, the brush of teeth against lips, sucking, nibbling, it worked to merge the push-and-pull of intentions.  One rising up, the other bowing down to meet in the middle.  
  
It was crucial they were in this _together,_ not fighting by themselves—or worse, against each other—to reach a goal served no one.  They’d been out there, on their own, for too long as it was...  
  
This completed the circle to bring their energy, lives, ties and promises back to life: the _right way_.  Rekindling where they should be, reminding them where they'd been, proving it took one another to be happy.

This was who they were.  
  
It was only after division were they reminded how lost they were without one another.

Realizing it took digging and searching meant something _was_ wrong.  Undeniably.

Dean’s fingers tangled in Cas’ locks when he came up for air, his lips swollen and his freckles highlighted against flushed cheeks in a way Cas lived for.  The long-awaited and dreamt of vision, the sensation of Dean pulling his hair, all of it sent Cas’ hips arching off the bed, bucking against his bare ass.  
  
Dean muttered both curses and moans, they grew louder at the repetitive friction of fabric rubbing harshly against his skin.  The sensation down and dirty, physical, exactly what he craved.  But those slacks weren’t leaving—not _yet_.

Both knew it.

While their touch had melted into something softer, Cas stroking his cheek and Dean kissing his knuckles, he was wearing his game face.  He repeated, “Why were you aching to leave?  Why didn’t you—”

“Wait for you?” Cas finished for him, and now…it seemed foolish.  “I misjudged the situation.  Had I known…”  He sneered at the idiocy of it all.  “I understand you need time to think.  It’s great; it’s something I’ve supported, encouraged for a long time.  You’ve come a long way, Dean.  But this time…I was _petrified_ of whatever those well-thought out words ended up as.”

Dean’s face screwed up in confusion.  “What the hell do you mean?”

“What happened…” Cas cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully.  “I thought I was going to die.  Truly.  Because of that, I put you in a position I never wanted to.   _You_ , Dean—you should’ve been the one to come out to your family.  On your own terms.  I took it away from you.  At the time, all I wanted was to make sure you knew you have—and have _always had—_ my heart.  I was consumed, selfishly making sure you knew, and I did wrong by you.”

The confusion turned to bafflement, Dean’s voice airy, something about Cas’ words staggering to him.  “No.  No, no, no, that was _not_ what I was working up to tell you—Jesus Christ, Cas!  That wasn’t even on my radar—it was a _relief_ , if anything!  I-I was trying to throw something together, wax poetry about how without _you_ in my corner, I don’t know _if I_ can make it.  About the millions of ways you make me better, about how I fucking love you, even when you’re dying, about—”

Dean was trembling, his head moving back and forth, arms quivering, barely able to hold his weight up, above Cas.  There was more to say, he wouldn’t interrupt, but so far; Cas‘ heart was a crashing beat, thumping so loudly, he hoped it wouldn't drown out Dean’s words—  
  
Back in the present, he'd hoped he would live long enough to hear it.  
  
Immediately following, he'd prayed his mistake hadn't cost them what they'd built.  That they'd still be able to continue forward together.  
  
Even when Castiel had feared the worst, when he'd ran away...in the briefest of moments (when he let his guard down, when he was feeling weak and couldn't shut out the noise) he couldn't snuff out the last whispers of faith: maybe one day Dean would forgive him.  Maybe down the line they could rebuild the trust he'd trampled on.

Dean hung his head in defeat.  “I thought maybe, ’cause I wasn’t quick on the draw, you thought I wasn’t, like, as passionate about you…as you were about me.  ‘Bout _us_.  Like, it wasn’t a big deal when you almost died.  Fuck…everything was ass-backwards.”  
  
"All I wanted was to turn it around."  The motivation changed when Dean heaving a breath of annoyance, “All of a sudden, _before_ I could make things right—you’re off chasing some chick around the country!  Sure, that’s important, but to me,  _we’re_ important!  I almost lost you!  You could’ve stayed a little longer.  Or even asked me to come with you, if it was urgent but we…”

“Weren’t on the same page,” Cas understood.  Now that he had the answers, he wanted to assure Dean that he was dead-wrong.

“We weren’t even reading the same fuckin’ book,” he grumbled and huffed.  Right as he opened his mouth, instead of words, an echoing, “ _Woah—_!” was bouncing off the motel walls.

Castiel took advantage of the crestfallen hunter, whirling him around and shoving him into the mattress, knowing he wouldn’t put up much fight.  
  
With Dean securely pinned him down, Cas kissed him again.  This time he didn’t stop with his lips.  He smoothly crossed his cheek to the hinge of Dean’s jaw, earning a whimper when he flicked his tongue along the shell of Dean’s ear.  His confidence returned, brazen when catching his earlobe between with teeth, sucking and barely tugging.

“Here you are, searching the country for me.”  Dean shivered as Cas’ words tickled his neck, “And offering yourself up on a silver platter.  Because you wanted to be sure I still loved you.  Am I correct?”

“Hah, well…”  His back rolled right along with Cas’ fingers tracing his sides, until they sunk between his legs.  “S-seemed like a _grand_ idea at the time.”  Dean was hyper-focused when Cas hovered directly over his cock.  His breath hitched, but his words held steady, bold.  “Did it work?  Do you love me now?”

He was sure Dean caught his feigned expression of nonchalance, right before he sucked down his cock.  Oh, he’d missed the way his lover tasted, had it truly been so long?  
  
The precum rolling on his tongue was savored, memorized, before he swallowed it down.  And soon, swallowing Dean’s cock down, he couldn't get enough.  
  
It was so easy to get lost like this, Cas fixated around Dean’s pleasure, the volume of his moans, and briefly wondered about making Dean cum down his throat.

His lips bumped the base of Dean’s dick, sending him reeling and shouting out, further inspiring Cas to begin swallowing _hard_.  Constricting the tunnel wrapped around his girth, Dean was touch-starved and losing it, already thrashing helplessly.  The more noise, the more reaction Cas pulled from Dean, the more he wanted to taste and take Dean’s load with his mouth—

Except…he traveled all this way, right?

Perhaps he should ask what Dean wanted...

One thing was certain, these pants were driving Castiel mad!

He retreated back to his haunches, unzipping the slacks and popping the button.  Once his thumbs hooked in the sides of his waistbands, Cas was amused (and unsurprised) to find his own precum had left a wet stain dampening the front of his pants.  
  
The relief was immediate once they were gone.  Sighing happily, he rid himself of every other piece of fabric before turning his focus back to Dean.

Dean, who was licking his lips, propped up on his elbows, and watching him like he was the only person on Earth.  Another prime example of what Castiel loved about him—an unexpected surprise he'd discovered from the beginning.  
  
When they decided to be together, that was it: Dean’s world truly did revolve around _one_ individual.  It hadn't been a condition or expectation going into their relationship, Castiel hadn't wished Dean to change anything for him, but that's all Dean wanted to do.  To _give_.  Monogamy looked stunning on the hunter, and Dean gave himself, wholeheartedly.

Dean watched him like a hawk as he crawled back to the bed, musing aloud, “What’s going on in that head’a yours, angel?”

“I was remembering how blessed I am.  To be loved by you, and only you.  I apologize for what happened, but I’ll make it up to you.  With my love and—”

“Only your love,” Dean’s tone was intriguing, he was trying to keep a straight face, Cas knew there was a point to be made on the horizon.  “Gotta admit, it feels and sounds nuts…”

As Cas spread kisses along Dean’s neck, he inquired, “What’s 'nuts?'”

“You…chasing some woman across the country…”  He pulled them closer together, tipping them over, until their bodies were flush and Dean had two handfuls of Cas’ ass.  “Meanwhile, I’m being a good boyfriend at home, waiting, pining, lovesick, and—”

He could see _exactly_ where Dean was leading them.  Castiel could feel it, too, as Dean manipulated Cas’ pelvis and scooted himself around on the bed.  Anticipation and excitement grew with each calculated pivot, Dean squeezing Cas in with his knees.

“You’re more than my ‘boyfriend.’  Much more.  You know that,” Cas admonished, recognizing full-well Dean was looking for a _reaction_ , he was fishing, trying to get under Cas' skin.  “I don’t need to chase you.  I have you, and I plan on keeping you.  If there was a chance I _could_ lose you, I’d drop everything and come running.  The lengths I’d go to…well, such as almost dying.”  He scoffed, because he supposed he could laugh at it now.

There was a split-second where Dean locked up at the joke, where Cas kissed his nerves away—they needed to work past this, and if they couldn’t speak of it, the monster would continue growing.  He couldn’t let that happen.

Castiel gestured to Dean’s not-so-subtle actions, with a knowing, “You don’t want to do any of the work, do you?”

With his glorious shameless flashing grin, Dean said easily, “Isn’t that the great part of having an angel for a more-than-boyfriend?”

Cas placed a lingering kiss on Dean’s forehead, and warned, “You’re lucky I love you.”

Surprising him, Dean let go of any guiding, egging on, grabby hands, and instead; reached up.  He draped his arms around Cas’ neck and kissed him sweetly, brushing their noses together.  “I love you.  More than anything.  The words I needed to think up, come up with on my own?  I got ‘em: I'm not me without you, with you and me together.  And...what we have is too awesome to keep quiet.  From anyone.  There, that’s what I needed to say.  So don’t...die.  It’d probably end me, too.”

That weight pinching Cas’ back and shoulders he thought had originated from his search?  It vanished.  The clinging anxiety of ‘what happens now’ because of their parting was the source from the very beginning.

There was no stress or cause for concern, and Cas’ heart felt lighter.  Even his hushed, mischievous, “I should probably show you that love I'd mentioned, now, shouldn’t I?” was playful, as he began to tease, sliding the head of his cock around Dean’s puckered hole.

“Oh, _hell yeah_ , Cas.  Show me that angel mojo in action,” Dean returned without hesitation.  
  
His timbre switched one more time—Dean's demeanor flipped when he leaned in closer to Cas’ ear, whispering, “Lemme be good for you.  Fuck me with all your strength, show me what you’ve got, babe.  And go on ahead—do your search and rescue mission by day, I’ll be here.  Waiting for you, every night.  You come home to me.  I trust you—to have me, take me, however you want me—so, c'mon, and do your worst.”  
  
He hadn't been expecting Dean's wanton plea, how he was relinquishing all control.  While his words were demanding, still urgent—they made Castiel sizzle from head to toe—Dean finally pushed him too far—  
  
—Hell, he pushed him into taking a swan-dive off the ledge, his hunger motivating him, he couldn't stop it.

Slamming into Dean’s body crossed the line into carnal, reckless territory.  Once they were one, every sensation—emotional and physical _—_ unforgivinglyflooded over and through their senses until they were drowning in each other, like a storm pummeling a ship at sea.

Dean asked for 'his worst,' and that's what he got: it rushed through both of them, finally breaking in the way of near-violent thrusts, joining them.

At first, Castiel was worried, he hadn’t kept his grace in check—!  
  
But when Dean started clawing feverously at his back, screaming for more—he knew it was a victory.  For them both.

Caution was thrown by the wayside, Cas wasn’t shy about searching and finding a rhythm to drive Dean crazy.  Both were eager lovers and well-versed in each other's body language.  That meant linking together wasn't only smooth, the path getting there was a mix of filthy encouragements and the exact kind of wild manhandling Dean thrived inside.  
  
For a fleeting moment, Cas’ hips snapped forward and Dean was able to meet him halfway, bucking and grinding against every thrust.  Soon after (almost too soon, as Dean would complain), he shouted, “Yeah, Cas—fuck, _right there_!” and the best effort he could muster was squeezing Cas in with his legs.  
  
And holding on for dear life.  
  
When Castiel heard those words, when he heard Dean lose himself like this?  How could he be expected to hold back?

Early on in their relationship, they learned they were _excellent_ at foreplay.  
  
After all, it had defined their beginnings—they'd danced around each other, engaging in endless bouts sexual frustration and tension until one fateful night.  It also made Dean's choice to get his attention without clothes logical—if they wanted to toy with the other, kiss one another and tease, they could go for hours.  Both their resolves held steady (vexingly so) until one of them broke and began begging.  
  
It built and built until they couldn't take it and gave in—lips frantically glued together, unable to get close enough, moving as a well-oiled machine—then it was over.

As soon as the dam broke—Cas’ cock plunging a fast and downright brutal pace, punching out both curses and pleading cries from Dean (and creating those wet, _delicious_ slapping sounds when he bottomed out)—they entered this trance.

Yes, Cas and Dean were loving and affection when they had their wits about them.  
  
They were also _exceptionally_ physical.  
  
Discovering their flip-side was another remarkable way gravity pulled them together.  They came alive when passion manifested in a chase—tailing behind what felt like an insatiable itch, craving to be scratched with a heavy hand.  
  
Every rough bruise and bite mark, every scraped, rug-burned knee and accidentally-black-and-blue rib, it just _happened_.  Those marks, the reminders of Cas on Dean’s body were prized.  They were reminders he refused to let the angel heal.

Just like when Dean’s bow-legged strides widened ever-so-slightly, when he’d gripe about how sore he was from epic sex, but cherished the burn.  Now, he wanted the damage being done to be powerful enough for a memento.    
  
He _wanted_ the physicality, he hungered for it—Dean needed to be fucked raw and Castiel would gladly oblige.  It was intoxicating, addicting, to hand themselves over so completely.  Both as an act of trust and because they knew exactly what they the other capable of.

Dean’s heels knocked against Cas’ sides as he attempted to arch up against Cas' cock, taking him deeper than before.  The way his head began to bobble, Dean fighting to hold it up, was the first sign—Cas knowing he was trying to stave off his orgasm.  It happened to be counterproductive with Castiel’s own plans.

He scooped up Dean’s back, cradling his head to support him—Dean’s arms instantly shot out to haul them back together.  His smirk was forced, and Dean clucked his tongue, knowing he was caught.  “Never can fool you, huh?”

Dean's confidence—still haughty, his body glistening, dripping sweat, flushing pink and exquisite—he wondered: was there any way Castiel could love something more than this human in his arms?

He shook his head and kissed him hard, their teeth clashing together.  The order against Dean’s lips rumbled low, almost dangerous, “Let me watch you cum,” just the way Dean liked it.

Cas retreated enough for the show: thrill coursing through his veins as he coaxed the precise response he wanted from his lover—Dean's helpless whimpers and dropped jaw.  For his own pleasure (he knew it would arouse Dean just as much), Cas used his strength to prop Dean up and spread him out on display.  He was supported, he could move—and indulge—any way he wished.  
  
First, Cas watched his eyes double.  Dean’s breathing turned ragged, continuing to fight like hell, fucking himself against Cas’ dick, the best that he could manage.  His nails dug in, breaking the surface of Cas’ skin, at the same time Dean’s moans erupted like a symphony to Cas’ ears.

He shoved Dean down, anchoring him where he was completely sheathed on his cock—Cas relentlessly rocking, swiveling, pulsing heavy pressure against his sweet spot, Dean’s release splashed and coated them both.  
  
While Cas had every intention of keeping him here, milking his prostate—the clenching around his erection, the time they'd spent apart, _and_ the words tumbling from Dean’s lips changed things—

The jumbled thought of, “Holy fuck, I needed y-you, make sure I w-wasn’t dreaming—” may have sounded incomplete, but Cas could fill in every blank.

He was an idiot for leaving him.  
  
Dean had enough people abandon him for ten lifetimes—how could Cas make the choice to walk away: because he was _afraid_?  Dean was terrified that he’d lost him forever, to death, and—

Cas was here, he needed to act like it.  He was going to make damn sure Dean felt it— _felt tonight_ —as their new beginning for the future.  There was no better way to make Dean _feel_ loved than a reminder of _being_ loved.  One that would make it difficult for him to walk in the morning.

While Dean was caught up in the wash on his own orgasm, Castiel chased after his own.  The friction and squeeze around his dick paled in comparison to the blissed-out, heavy-lidded way Dean was mesmerized by his every move.  
  
He was beautiful.  Dean took it to another level when he nodded—joining in with Cas’ hips again, fucking into him into the mattress like there was no tomorrow—

And Dean seized his mouth the moment he was blowing his load.

Shuddering, like he could _feel_ that rush of cum, had Cas gleefully wondering: maybe it had been so long, maybe his insides were so well-fucked, he actually _could_.

Both heady from the comedown, their grappling to get closer turned into rolling around on the bed, and keen to get their mouth on every inch of skin they could reach.  Until they just…didn’t have anything left to give.

In a calm stillness, the room filled with heavy swallows and even heavier panting, they allowed the sweat glossing their bodies to dry before diving under the clean sheets.

During that lull, Cas put two and two together.

Castiel had a strong hunch (from Dean’s blurted confession) he was having nightmares.  
  
He trusted his gut: because after the _incident,_  after almost losing him, the most contact they'd had was…what—a goodbye kiss?  Even phone calls and text messages ceased during the misunderstanding.    
  
They'd gotten it all wrong.  
  
After a traumatic experience, on any scale, you _stayed together_.  
  
You held each other, you made love—assuring one another both of you existed.  Over and over.  Until it was old news.  Until you were sick of hearing about it.  Until it _stuck,_ until you _believed_.

Castiel brushed it off, knowing Dean would be there when he returned, even though he may have felt slighted.  The other side of the coin was much darker, too familiar in the life of a hunter—he'd acted carelessly, thoughtlessly—couldn’t imagine what he put Dean through.  Which was why he pulled him a little closer.

Kissed his forehead.  And whispered, “I am so sorry.  I was a coward, I didn’t even think of your feelings.  I’m...ashamed.”

Dean was strong, maybe too strong—he didn't bother waiting a beat before saying, “Don’t worry.  Everything's fine now.  We figured it all out, that’s what matters, right?”

The words made Castiel frown.  Of course, being together, being all right _was_ what mattered, but the way he handled it _wasn’t_.  
  
Castiel supposed there was only one thing he could do…

“I promise, I won’t let it happen again.”  His arms and his legs tightening and intertwined with Dean’s limbs—yearning to be closer, wanting to meld together.  “The moment you feel like I’m doing something similar?  Point it out, make me aware.  We stop everything.  We can never allow ourselves to get to a point that requires fixing.  Okay?”

This time, Dean actually paused and let the information sink in.  He hummed thoughtfully and nodded.  “Yeah, that’s good.  You do the same with me.  Call me out on my bullshit, okay?  It’s only fair.”

“I find this agreeable.”  A soft smile rose to his cheeks, breathing easier for a _different_ reason.

“But Cas…” Dean sounded dismayed, and just when Cas could rest easy—alarm took its place.

“What is it?” he jumped at the problem.  “We can talk it out, discuss other options, or—”

“No, no,” he snorted, the angel just _seeing_ his eyes roll.  Dean helpfully corrected himself, saying, “But then, what other excuse could I use to break into your room, naked, and surprise you?”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Dean repeated, drably adding, “Don’t sound so impressed.”

“Trust me,” Cas ruefully countered, “I was very, very impressed.  My brain ceased all function for a while.  I welcome that as a constructive problem-solving strategy.  In fact, you should implement it during all future endeavors.”  He paused to correct, "During our own, _personal_ constructive problem-solving endeavors."

“No shit.  It's not like I'm gonna invite Sam," he laughed out, then elongated the words, "Well…in the future...” while scooting until he'd draped himself across Cas.  In a poor attempt to mask his delight, Dean informed him, “Maybe we’re gonna have more ‘problem’s that need solving, more than initially predicted…”

The grin on Cas' face was telling: it was foolish, love-struck and (more than anything) absolutely in awe.  “Dean, you _are_ quite problematic, aren’t you?”

“Damn right, I am,” he winked.  “Thought that’s why you loved me?”

Cas couldn’t help himself.  He grabbed the back of Dean’s neck and pulled him in, showing off exactly _how_ _much_ he loved him through tender kisses and whispers of forever.  Something they should have done before Castiel had left the Bunker in the first place…

Thankfully, they _had_ forever to work with—and late was better than never, wasn't it?

**Author's Note:**

>  **Written for SPN Kink Bingo**  
>  Square Filled: Teasing


End file.
